


Special Delivery

by ocelot_core



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cardboard Box, Gen, Mission Fic, this is that, you know how you can fast travel by mail in mgsv?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:35:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25569847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ocelot_core/pseuds/ocelot_core
Summary: The smell of the cardboard is comforting. It surrounds you fully and fills your lungs, competing only with the scent of gasoline from passing trucks. It is comfortable; soft against your hands and knees, but you feel the hard, dusty earth underneath. You can feel the tiny chips of gravel being pushed into the cardboard by your weight, but they are nothing more than dimples in the soft surface, giving texture to the uniform surface.Venom Snake tries travelling by mail.
Kudos: 10





	Special Delivery

**Author's Note:**

> MGSV's fast travel system is ridiculous and I love it. I feel for those poor soldiers who have to lift Venom into the truck though, man is built of muscle, he cannot be light.

The smell of the cardboard is comforting. It surrounds you fully and fills your lungs, competing only with the scent of gasoline from passing trucks. It is comfortable; soft against your flesh hand and your knees, but you feel the hard, dusty earth underneath. You can feel the tiny chips of gravel being pushed into the cardboard by your weight, but they are nothing more than dimples in the soft surface, giving texture to the uniform surface.

You shift. Crouched on all fours, your limbs grow weary, but there is no room to move. You lean your weight on your prosthetic to save the strength in your other arm. You try to stretch your back, but it hits the top of the box slightly. You still, waiting for any sign that someone saw the slight jostle of the box and is coming to investigate. Outside, it remains still. A cool breeze blows through the otherwise still and warm air, flowing through the box’s handles. You feel less stifled, thanks to the breeze.

The light dims as a cloud drifts in front of the sun. It was not bright in the box, a stream of sunlight falling in through one of the hand holds. It is darker now, cooler too. The sun no longer beats down on the cardboard, and it no longer radiates the sun’s heat into you. Only your own body heat is kept in by the soft walls; you drained the heat of the ground below you many hours ago.

Is that how long it’s been? It feels like less, but that is the only explanation for the coolness emanating from the bottom face of the box.

The sun comes back out. You are grateful for the return of its warmth, though the break from it was nice.

There are sounds of men talking now, and footsteps, distant but growing closer. You only know the language a little, but it sounds like they’re talking about a truck, and about a destination. It is just what you want to hear.

As the footsteps grow closer, a truck rumbles along the road. You feel it before you hear it, the vibrations rippling through the sand and up into your arms. Your shoulders start to go numb as the rumbling becomes louder, and then too loud, and then stops, right next to you. The footsteps stop shortly after, and there is more talk, this time of packages, you think, and a destination again. Footsteps once more, walking past you, and then the back of the truck opens with a clunk.

Hands push through the handles and you hold your breath so as not to alert them. The bottom of the box is heavily taped, the corners are reinforced. It should hold your weight.

The box is lifted, one person on each side. They complain, you think, about the weight. You are suspended in the air for a moment, two, as the footsteps shuffle towards the truck, and then there is solid floor beneath the box again, as you are deposited. The back is closed. Two clunks tell you to prepare to start moving, and then you do. One step closer to your destination.

It shouldn’t be long now, just to the next outpost. You feel the rumbling of the engine under you and your body grows more and numb, tingling down to your feet and the tip of your nose. The wheel arch digs into your side slightly, not enough to hurt, or grow sore, but enough to know that it’s there. Gasoline permeates your nostrils much more now, the pleasant woody aroma of the cardboard now barely noticeable. You notice plywood among the smells of the truck, probably boxes of guns and ammunition, and the metal of the walls and floor. Peeking through the handle you see other packages, none other than your own big enough to hold a person. Irrationally, that had worried you. To be found out and followed and murdered in a cardboard box in the back of a delivery truck. Unlikely, but it is your job to think of these things. Kaz had said it would be fine, and for once Ocelot had agreed.

It is stifling. Though it was hot outside, with the sun beating down, at least there was the breeze and the ventilation of the hand holds. Here in the truck, the same air circulates around. There are no vents. You wonder if you would suffocate if you stayed in here long enough. You decide not to think about it.

The truck rumbles on for an hour, maybe two, maybe three. You wonder again how they talked you into travelling by mail. It was Ocelot’s idea, of course. Use everything to your advantage. Kaz had been less keen, concerned about the truck’s ventilation, but the intel said it would be fine for a few hours, so he approved it.

You can’t feel your hand, and your arms are almost buckling with the strain. Your knees are shaking and will make it difficult to stand when you have to. You’re hungry. You wish you had brought a protein bar. This was not the best idea.

The truck slows, then stops. The feeling slowly comes back into your extremities as the engine’s vibrations fade. There are footsteps, one pair, muffled by the thick walls of the truck. The back is opened, and you want to gasp the fresh air into your stale lungs but instead you remain quiet, breathing slowly and rhythmically. Another pair of footsteps come around, and both climb into the truck. You hold your breath again as a hand slips into the hold, and you are again lifted.

You stay in mid air longer this time, the footsteps shuffling awkwardly along the packed dirt path you can just see through the handle, leading to the main office of the outpost. Your box was clearly marked, there’s nowhere else to take it. A minute passes, and you are roughly dropped in front of the door. You wince as your knees hit hard onto the wooden step.

Three bangs on the door and then quiet. As the truck starts up and rumbles away, you do not feel it in your hands. The men who carried the box murmur between each other.

From inside the makeshift office, you hear footsteps, just barely. You rest your hands on the roof of the box, untaped and ready to open with a slight push.

The footsteps are louder now, just inside the door. You hear handle being pushed. You feel the warmth as the man stands next to the box, leans over it. You can smell his cologne. He speaks a few words to the soldiers, and they leave. He stands straight again, and so do you, but faster, and you pull out a gun which you point straight at his head.

“Special delivery,” you say, and though your right hand is still numb, you don’t need it, and you don’t need to feel the trigger to be able to pull it.


End file.
